Cossack Dance
by Emilia Silverova
Summary: Her last mission proved a complete fiasco. But for the queen of the Syndicate, answering for her actions in such an unfavourable situation did not necessarily mean having a bad time. She was the boss, so to speak - and she never minded a thorough debriefing.


_**Author's note: **_So_. At this point I can safely say that an old dream finally came true for me. I have been lurking in this fandom for almost six years, both here and on AO3, and despite not being a big fan of romance there was one pairing I was desperate to read. __Back when I first watched GoldenEye, I remember that I hated Xenia because of her sexually charged craziness; but as years passed and I started to write about these characters, I gradually got to see how her very existence did reveal much about my beloved Alec. If he could handle this lady in the movie, then he had to be even more villainous than he looked - since I always favoured Janus over 006, no question that I was pleased with this fact. Hence, as neither the base story in any of its forms (movie, scripts, games, novelization and whatnot) or fellow fanfiction writer ever produced a romance involving these two, here I am sweeping in to fill the blanks. As such, t__his one-shot is the realization of virtually all my expectations. One that is almost two years in the making, and boy am I proud of it.  
_

_It is not just that though. The world of Missing Connection, my main work, extends far out of the boundaries of what I have managed to put on paper so far. Much of its background elements you readers have never heard of, and some might remain forever invisible to you due to my POV character being everything but omniscient. Hence I tried to fix part of this issue by blending a fair amount of new information and details in the course of this story, as well as making the latter a different perspective on some events of the main fic._

_Again I can't thank enough my good friend KaijuDirectorOO7 for his comments, ideas, editing and overall support, as this one-shot likely would have never existed without him. Our years of collaboration have been very profitable, and the fact I have managed to deliver something so massive to my standards - and that deals with topics I would have been too shy to write about not that long ago - is the indisputable proof of it. Besides, he too longed for a story like this one... so at least that makes two of us.  
_

_But enough about me. Now, if you please, let's make way for the actual thing._

_**_Warning: _**_Spoilers on Missing Connection (but if you don't have the time to engage in reading it, at least all you need to know is properly recapped).__

* * *

**_Missing Connection_**_** _–_ Stand-alone** _

_ Cossack Dance_

* * *

A fiery red Ferrari 488 roared into the quiet courtyard of 5 Rubinstein Street. The small yet powerful roadster never went unnoticed in the streets of Saint Petersburg, but that was its owner's precise intention. With this she showed the world she was not afraid to bend it her way, and no opposition could prevail against it. Besides, she did not see any point in hiding her taste for flashy racing cars; those along with the violence of the world she lived in fuelled the one thing that she, Xenia Sergeevna Onatopp_, _lived for. Her insatiable appetite for excitement.

That day though, she showed little haste in getting out of the Ferrari. She already knew how this evening would end, better keep her energy up and release it at full power in due time. Once having turned the ignition off, she took out a silver-plated, engraved cigarette case from the leather purse laying on the passenger's seat. The first inhalation was an instant relaxer, making her quietly rest back after putting the cap back on the lighter socket.

The hour was getting late, but those days the Arctic sky seemed to be wallowing in perpetual twilight rather than willing to set. This year's White Nights season and the non-stop celebration that accompanied it were coming to an end, the warm wind blowing on the black locks escaping her messy bun was there to remind it. That was fine to her, would not good things lose their uniqueness if they lasted forever?

Puff after puff her cigarette was gradually consumed, until she grabbed her bag and left the vehicle. Letting one last smoke trail pass her lips, she put the stub out and walked to the service entrance of one of the surrounding apartment houses. The square heels of her sandals clicked on the cobblestone pavement as she did, reverberating off the closed walls around. The sound of keys being taken out then of the door letting her in followed, and soon died in their turn.

Taking the former servants' staircase three floors up, she reached a dark wood door. Inserting another key in the safety lock, she got into the luxury kitchen of a late nineteenth century dwelling a turn of the handle later. For all she remembered, this was one of the few rooms that did not retain their original furnishings; still, the redness of the mahogany, shine of the gilt and patina of the marbles closely matched those found in other parts of the place.

An opened white wine bottle sitting on the central counter drew her attention – French Muscadet, obviously the remains of a seafood dinner. She took the opportunity to pour herself some of it, for she very much enjoyed the sweet citrus acidity the beverage offered her palate. A nice treat before the onset of the hostilities, if anything. Putting the crystal glass down, a wry smile crept onto her face. Now she felt fully prepared. Not just to hold her ground anymore, but to win the impeding battle.

* * *

Although he did not leave any indication, she had a pretty good idea of where she would find the man of the house. Without any hesitation she went down a short passage, bathing in the midnight sunlight seeping through its lone window. She followed it until coming across a white stucco dining area. There she was faced with a choice, in the form of two double wing doors at each side of the room.

The one on the right provided access to the main entry hall. From there she could either go to the great living room – which was more of a showpiece than anything –, or the study – but she knew the man was definitely not in the mood for overtime. Like in those ancient Japanese homes, the more private quarters were to be found further inside, thus she settled for the last available option. Moving closer to the door on the left, she began to hear sounds coming out. Among those was the voice of the Rossiya-24 news channel's presenter, confirming her bet to be a success.

"На волне трагедии в Лас-Вегасе, унесшей жизни более 2000 человек, полиция и ФБР всё ещё пытаются определить виновных в нападении…" (Na volne tragedii v Las-Vegase, unesshey zhizni boleye dvukh tysyach chelovek, politsiya i Fe-Be-Er vso yeshcho pytayutsya opredelit' vinovnykh v napadenii_…, In the wake of the tragedy in Las Vegas, which claimed the lives of more than 2,000 people, the police and the FBI are still trying to identify the perpetrators of the attack…_)

Slipping inside, she entered the apartment's den. While its walls also were pristine white, the Oriental design elements made it both nicely stand out from the vintage European decoration and somehow be reminiscent of her Southern Ossetian homeland. The alley she stepped into lead straight to the master bedroom, and was demarcated from the rest of the room by a band of mosaic inlay on the marble floor – a lattice screen topping the latter for about the first couple of meters. So this would be the theatre of conflict.

"… неизвестное оружие было сброшено неподалеку от казино «Мидас Гранд»…" (… neizvestnoye oruzhiye bylo sbrosheno nepodaleku ot kazino «Midas Grand»…, _… an unknown weapon was dropped near the Midas Grand casino…_), the newsreader kept going.

She knew very well what could be found behind the room divider. Mainly, two sofas covered with red and gold striped linen, flanking both sides of a coffee table; a large high-end TV set facing this arrangement; a narrow, antique cabinet placed in a corner; and a long-unused hookah supported by one of two small octagonal pedestals. But the most important element was that through the gaps between the strips of carved Persian walnut, a lounging male figure could be guessed.

"What took you so long?"

His tone was downright aggressive, containing neither the smarm nor patronage he would serve anyone else. They were the only persons each other trusted in this world, and as such afraid neither to speak their minds, nor to play fierce power games in private. Hence, her answer was to throw her bag on the couch opposite his and defiantly stand with her hands placed on her hips.

"… одним из самых смертоносных нападений в современной истории США." (… odnim iz samykh smertonosnykh napadeniy v sovremennoy istorii Se-She-A., … _one of the deadliest attacks in modern US history_.)

The shadow behind the screen raised the remote, his rage clearly showing as he pushed the off switch. All she could see of him was his feet being swiftly taken off the ottoman they were resting on, until he finally made his full appearance. How scrumptious it was by the way. The early summer air outside had got the better of his marked taste for dressing in shades of black – not that she did not have the same penchant herself, but seeing him in this lovely sky blue twill shirt and light grey suit pants was the kind of eye candy she could use any day. Even with the terrible set of scars that froze his right cheek.

"How could you let that happen?", he snapped at her again, his head waving at the turned off screen.

A sour smile crept on her lips. No mistake should have been made at this point, she was at least as mad as he was. Not about the death toll, they did not give the slightest damn, but the fact she had failed to retrieve the weapon the newsreader mentioned. The OMEN, or Organic Mass Energetic Neutralizer; a reusable neutron bomb developed in total secrecy by industry mogul Auric Goldfinger, who used to hide it in his personal casino – the aforementioned Midas Grand.

One of this Goldfinger's biggest opponents happening to be an ally to their organization, she had agreed to help with the conduct of the attack of the establishment's vault and subsequent theft of the device. But there had been a wrench of the cogs of the otherwise perfectly thought-out plan; Kaiko Morikawa. A half-Japanese female operative of theirs, sent ahead of the incursion to distract Goldfinger's main attack dog – a brutish ex-UK special forces mercenary nicknamed _GoldenEye_ – but who instead turned on them and even had the luxury of being directly responsible for the loss of the weapon.

"А сколько раз я тебе говорила не посылать её туда, осёл?" (A skol'ko raz ya tebe govorila ne posylat' yeyo tuda, osol?,_ And how many times did I tell you not to send her there, you mule of a man?_)

Answering in Russian was only meant to get on his nerves. After all, how more ridiculous could the situation get? The great Alec Trevelyan, the fearsome Janus and undisputed head of the Russian crime syndicate of the same name, betrayed and checkmated by a helpless girl he had screwed in every sense of the word. Xenia would have been the first to laugh at his face; that is, if she wasn't included in the collateral damage.

"This certainly doesn't answer my question." She had been waiting for the predatory smile he gave as he began to circle around her. The shark could not change its fin, could it? "I didn't send her alone, did I?"

"Ничего не хочу слушать от той, кто отрицает _свой_ косяк." (Nichego ne khochu slushat' ot toy, kto otritsayet _svoy_ kosyak., _I won't hear anything from someone who denies his _own_ screw-up._)

"Мой косяк?" (Moy kosyak?, _My screw-up?_)

So the big fish went for the bait? _'Хорз.'_ (_Khorzh_., Good.) The prospects for this night were turning out even more promising than in her wildest expectations. Now, if she could find out to what extent…

"Ты меня слышал." (Ty menya slyshal., _You heard me._), she goaded softly.

Any sane mind would have hammered it home; _'let the sleeping dogs lie'_. But for one, she easily lived with a questionable sanity. Second, as scary as his fury could look to some, it also constituted the man's greatest weakness as long as you knew how to play along – and boy was it fun sport. On the other hand, it took so much more to inflame her than the sharp burn of the slap that just pushed her head sideways. That one she took without a flinch.

"Sorry, I must have wax in my ears. Again please?" Instead of any verbal answer, hers was a nonchalant shrug. "Oh well. You know, I could have sworn you were in charge of a small army – not of our men, I hear you, but still trained enough to take care of a girl scared shitless and whatever hunky sidekick at her side. Now, I wasn't there myself, but if you let me…"

Honey laced with the acrid taste of venom. Decidedly he could not help but draw from his usual bag of tricks, despite knowing that these had no effect whatsoever on someone who had known him as long as she did. But at least he did not insult her by dragging it out, as he let his next rebuke fall like the blade of a guillotine;

"… you being defeated by these two was a bloody statistical impossibility."

"Так и есть. Точно, как ты говоришь, _'a bloody statistical impossibility'_ – которая стала возможной благодаря тебе." (Tak i yest'. Tochno, kak ty govorish', _'a bloody statistical impossibility'_ – kotoraya stala vozmozhnoy blagodarya tebe., _This is true. Exactly as you say,_ 'a bloody statistical impossibility'. _Made possible thanks to you._)

He restrained himself from answering back, it was impossible for her not to see it. It would be a matter of time before he would get sick of her little game of poking and prodding, but his policy of never showing any weakness was too inflexible for him to bend to her will that soon. The balancing act he played there obviously was a hard one to hold, a shame when the woman opposite him could carry on dancing even without a head. That was the biggest difference between them; it was the rhythm, not the tune itself, that kept her alive.

"Very well, do go on.", he eventually let out.

"What did I say again? Ah yes. _Don't. Send. Her_. Least of all to the big, silent oaf. Perhaps is it clearer for you in when I talk like this?"

One could only imagine how much he loathed that, try as he might, he would never get rid of his native English in favour of exclusive Russian. It might have sounded contradictory since he never went amiss of using the former to assert his dominance in a conversation, yet his silence at this was the strongest evidence of the button remaining ever so easy to push. In any case, his name alone betrayed that he was born and bred in Britain. Worse, the one he would have been christened should his father have stayed in the good old Soviet Union was worth no more than yet another alias.

"Because what happened when you did anyway? Poof! The days of grieving over her dirty past were suddenly gone. She gave it all in, without even asking anything in return. Though I'd almost forgive her for that part – a bad girl's wet dream the man certainly is."

Putting on a false air of innocence, she lightly sucked on the tip of her finger and ran it down her lip for good measure. It was not so much an effort to sprinkle some jealousy in, as Alec had never really stopped her from seeing other men or women – how could he have, with such a busy philandering agenda of his own? No, the real aim there was to have him write off his good books the one creature on Earth he never let his mistress get too close to. The mixed-race nuisance who used to feign immunity to the charms of manly men such as this GoldenEye, only to cosy up to the latter so well that it shot Xenia's credibility to hell.

"Unexpected of her, but her betrayal certainly wasn't."

That point she could not challenge, the two decisions of his that had paved the way to the Las Vegas fiasco were very well-informed indeed. The first was to ask little Kaiko to go kill Goldfinger's angry thug shortly after overhearing her being offered to switch sides. According to him, either she did it and it saved Xenia's commando a whole lot of trouble during the theft of the OMEN, or she didn't and proving her bona fides would divert GoldenEye's attention long enough to catch them red-handed, do the wet work then continue as planned.

"Why did I send her you ask? I don't know, I'd venture that _everything_ was set up so that you could handle them both." The frown he got from her last line had deepened, adding to the piercing cold of his stare.

"And I did, but of course you had to ask for getting her _back_. As if this were the right time to tie up your loose ends."

There was his second bad call. _'Bring her back here'_ he had ordered, but what for? Give the girl a schoolteacher's sermon like the one he was delivering at the moment? Or maybe kill her himself, to finally put the colossal mistake and waste of his time she represented behind? Whatever it was, Xenia had actually managed to get both the traitor and neutron bomb in a transport aircraft, ready to be sent to their respective destinations. But only so close to the grand slam she learnt in what disastrous way Alec's demand would come back to her.

In spite of everything he had done to break it, one last fragment of trust had lived on in the girl all along. That combined with the evident dread of what would happen to her back home sparked something unforeseen. Unthinkable, even. Morikawa activated the OMEN herself, thanks to a code her new friend must have given her. A moment later she could be seen diving into the void from the gunship to the latter's own helicopter, so he could fly her away from the inevitable blast.

The little stunt had left the Ossetian woman with no choice but throwing her hard-won loot overboard, and flying out of the American airspace before rapid reaction forces retaliated. The results were not just the current dispute, but the striking images featured in the earlier Rossiya-24 news bulletin. Flying, ownerless clothes in streets stripped of all organic life… it brought a whole new definition to the term _'fading away'_.

"Says the one who hassled me to have a chunk of her arse. How very convenient.", he scoffed, his bluish-green eyes now narrowed into two dark slits. "How about GoldenEye, didn't we agree on his prompt elimination?"

Xenia discarded the question with a shrug. He skirted her insinuations, she skirted his. But of course he would not leave it at that;

"Well?"

Suddenly, she found what shortcut she could use to jump straight to what she had in mind. All that was required of her was a small sacrifice; telling him what he exactly wanted to hear. What Mr. Trevelyan wanted Mr. Trevelyan always got, after all. Besides, who was right or wrong was nothing but a moot point at the present juncture. The truth was, they both had screwed up in their own little way, and what was done was done. Neither of their prides, however, would have any of it – hence this duel of dealing the most serious wound to the enemy.

"He managed to wipe out the entire squad before I could have him killed." Admitting her failure did hurt, but the gained striking power would definitely make up for it. "Which I could have handled, if not for her taking the opportunity to have my hide as well. Therefore _yes_, in the face of two fools whose bullets had my name on them, I shoved off."

Gone was the tension on his face as he came to face her, his hands clasped behind his back. A very significant move of his, since his stature did not grace him with the physical advantage of being the taller one of them. It was the brief moment of peace before both sides of the Caucasus mountains sounded with the thunder of a thousand horsemen's war cries. But for all the calm the Cossack commander could muster at this fateful event, he had better be aware of one thing; as soon as the fratricidal struggle kicked off, overconfidence would be his undoing.

"And everything still has to be blamed on me?", he spoke.

"Won't budge on that. Without her stirring him up, we'd all be better off."

The brutal punch in her stomach knocked the wind out of her for a second. She didn't even notice she fell on her knees before he pulled her chin to tilt her head back up. Most men would have shied away from hitting so hard a woman as attractive as she were, he would not. It was only fair though, the unspoken contract between them had it that neither of them owed the other any kind of gallantry. Otherwise would be hopelessly boring.

"Look at you, you worthless slag. Such a disgrace, and still having the nerve to jerk me around."

It took her a great deal of self-control not to burst out laughing. Instead of backing out while it still could, the foolish shark just let itself be caught on her hook. All she had to do now was to pull the fishing line from the water, which was the simplest part. It went like this; rather than getting mad and trying to retaliate at once, she simply dropped on her side like a lazy cat. Then, with a steady arm planted in the ground, she flashed him one of those impudent smiles she excelled at spreading across her lips;

"Well watch me, sore loser. Let me tell you a tale – the one of the man who had it all, until one day he picked up a random girl off the streets. Was it because of her puppy eyes, or her exotic looks, I have no idea, but instead of sleeping with her right away and leave it at that, he somehow convinced himself that she were the daughter he never had."

"Mostly irrelevant.", he murmured.

"I'm not finished. Because what happened next was that he taught her the trade, he taught her to fight… what could have gone wrong with his beloved filly? Well here goes; the stupid slob showed her why she should hate him, and after that he still believed she'd remain blindly obedient!"

The answer to her jibe was a kick, this time unusually aimed at her face. The violence of it sent her quite literally bite the dust, but yet again she did not stand up. One, because the fool actually managed to stun her for a bit, and two, because he would do that for her anyway.

"You'd better watch where you tread, Xenia Sergeevna."

_'Тебе мат, Алешка.'_ (_Tebe mat, Alyeshka_., Checkmate, little Alec.) As she prepared to step on the avenue now open before her, she could smell the sweet stench of her victory in the air. An intoxicating spirit he would kiss her feet for, not to mention other fringe benefits, rather than be allowed the slightest sip of. Any attempt of his at turning the tide would be futile, for he was exactly where she wanted him – setting loose demons he had poor command on, and bringing the main course of the feast her inner imp dined at.

"Do your worst darling.", the latter spoke through her mouth, the Ossetian twang making it almost sound like a purr.

* * *

It took one fluid motion to get the brawl going. Him snatching her hair to have her stand up, and her leaning in to claim a kiss in response. Nothing close to a loving smooch – rather her sharp teeth sinking into his lower lip, forcing their way into the flesh to draw the blood therefrom. His surprise permitted her cradling of his head to turn into a tight, unescapable embrace. As for his struggle as she kept pushing forward, it only increased her vampiric enjoyment. All the more so since the skin would be ripped right off should he try to pull away.

Of course, he had the wits to find a quick, unsubtle way to rebuff her attack. While her eyes were shut, she had no trouble in figuring that the pressure against them came from his thumbs, threatening to gouge her eyeballs out if the clamp on his lip did not loosen. To be fair, she hated this technique. For all the fun she could get from using it on someone, as the victim she had no option but to surrender. Even if he did not mean to go all the way in, one push too hard and she went blind.

Forfeit remained unacceptable, though. With a disapproving moan she did let go, but before he could play his turn she wrested his hands from her face to deliver a killer head-butt. She had clearly forgotten how thick his skull was, but thankfully the amount of seconds she needed to come around was lower than his. She took this opportunity to unzip her black skirt, to free her legs from the constraint of the light wool jersey. Then she pounced on her lover's front like on an untamed horse's back, giving a roar that bordered the animalistic.

How easy it had been up to there. He was just conscious enough to support her weight without yielding, which she had been counting on to indulge in her all-time favourite game. Her powerful legs now wrapped around his ribcage she slowly began to tighten her hold, not unlike a boa constrictor. Many had died in this spot; to his credit, he could boast about being one of the two survivors so far. Most impressively, the longest-enduring one of them.

In her fury, her wandering thoughts conjured up a distant memory. The one of the second survivor, James Bond, and that fateful night in Saint Petersburg's Grand Hotel Europe. The Brit was cut from the same cloth as his old friend Alec, she could tell. A pity that he was too uptight to partake in her games – confronting both men at once would have certainly been an engaging experience. In any case, the same intensity she had in the sauna returned, if not heightened.

Would she kill her Alyeshka this time, she did not know and did not care. It would be a shame to deprive herself of the one man who had posed a relentless challenge to her for so long, but should he come to lose that quality he certainly would not deserve her consideration anymore. She felt the well-trained muscles in his chest tense up, his bloodied mouth refuse another of her kisses, his lean fingers claw into her iron thighs. It would not be that night that he would let himself be pushed around, he was about to deliver the message loud and clear.

There was no pain at the outset, but the sudden impact and the unnatural curving of her back as it was crushed against the nearby sofa's arm. A further proof that contrary to Bond and all the others he never pulled any punches, and that he did not pay the scantest regard to what was in an opponent's trousers unless in very specific pursuits. While it resulted in her bucking and kicking him away with just as much fire, it should be noted that her reaction came out more of a primal instinct than anything else. It was in those moments, when the hurt turned into pure ecstasy, that she felt alive the most. No question that she would come back for as many encores as she could take.

Bringing herself up after the blow was harder than she thought, though. In fact, a nerve must have been pinched in the process, considering the sudden stiffness she felt as she tried to move. But she eventually ignored the radiating pain and numbness down her spine. Instead she watched with satisfaction as Alec wiped his wounded lip, wincing either at the sting or the ferrous taste on his tongue. She smirked; what better way to remind him that, in spite of being the offspring of the obliterated Cossackry and the exiled tsarist nobility, his blood was no bluer than hers?

However highborn he was, his greatest thrill was to be the alpha male, the man at the head of the table. When it involved the company of women, those who earned his respect he wanted the most. He liked new challenges; as such, wimps and _'docile bitches' _– in his own words – were no more to him than tools. There was no need to look any further to understand what held him and Xenia together after so many years of the steamy, outrageous relationship of theirs. As predators, they had come to the conclusion they had a lot to gain by walking side by side – at the acceptable cost of a never-ending, but ever so stimulating tug-of-war.

Coming back from these musings, she caught his distracted look at her exposed lower body. Ah yes, she had almost forgotten about that part; actual business called. She slipped out of her sandals, then completely undid her ruined bun. Letting her dark hair tantalizingly flow on her shoulders and her brown gaze regain its insolent gleam, she finally stood back up.

"Давай же, достань меня!" (Davay zhe, dostan' menya!, _Come and get me!_) , she teased him.

He still could not get his eyes off the curve of her hips and muscle tone of her legs. Who said nudity was a weakness she wondered. It had been quite some time already since they last shared a bed, and it unmistakably showed. Swaying the focus of his attention she ran her tongue on the roof of her mouth until giving a clicking sound. She had to pick a dirtier weapon from her arsenal, and she exactly knew which one. Now beckoning him with her two hands, she fired it with a sick, almost wheezing snicker;

"_Ссыкун_." (_Ssykun_., Bed-wetter.)

Swearing was the indelible mark of her days in the Russian Air Force. Going against this unspoken requirement would have been a losing battle. To be fair, fitting in the exclusively male ranks of the 713th Training Aviation Regiment as an Ossetian country girl had been excruciating enough without an extra layer of difficulty. Except for when she actually flew – which she was granted only during the '08 war with Georgia, her motherland's occupier and mortal enemy –, it was easy to see how this period of her life was the one she kept the least good memories of.

At Armavir, her station base, her daily life could be summed up as putting up with more or less open misogyny and Spartan comfort, training in simulators at best, mopping the floor at worst, and having to seduce as many superiors as it took to be finally allowed on the pilot's seat of a boneshaker MiG-29. _'Летающая мусорка'_ (letayushchaya musorka), as an instructor once coined. _'The flying garbage can_'.

Then, after the war and a token promotion to Captain, there was this space division general named Ourumov who proposed to introduce her to a friend of his. Someone who allegedly was _'interested in her talents'._ Little did she know that this shadowy friend would be her fast pass to underworld queendom, and even less that years later she would still have a soft spot for him. At least, when he did not try to shift the blame for his own failures on her.

Speaking of the devil, here he was charging like a mad bull in a ring. He too had a strong military background, his close quarter combat being as deadly precise as both her repertoire of insults and set of reflexes could get. In terms of blunt force, he was undeniably stronger than her – except maybe for her thighs –, but she could always count on her agility to outmatch him. Like in verbal jousting, his style was to aim for a quick win through harsh blows and swift parries; hers was to harass her adversary until she could hit right where it hurt, no matter how long it took.

That way, he could never get the upper hand. Some of his punches might successfully land, but the pain could not compare to a perfectly timed strike to the spleen, throat, or anywhere an artery could be pressed against a bone. Besides, while he maintained a pretty good shape his settling forties were slowly but surely sapping his stamina. Back when they first met, resisting each other's attacks was a tight game of resource management; no way she could have had him pinned so soon to the bedroom's door like at this moment, her fist planted in his solar plexus. No more than he would have been struggling that much to catch his breath, his head dangling down as beads of sweat ran off his face.

"_'Ссыкун'_? Сильно сказано для неважной лётчицы, которая стала шлюхой, чтобы получить крылья." (_'Ssykun'_? Sil'no skazano dlya nevazhnoy lotchitsy, kotoraya stala shlyukhoy, chtoby poluchit' kryl'ya., 'Bed-wetter'_? Tough words from a cheap pilot who turned into a whore to get her wings_.), he found the strength to sneer, as if it could make up for his embrittling potency.

_'Ды мæн дæ!'_ (_Dy man da!_, You're mine!) was her first thought, but the intricacies of the Ossetian language he did not master. Instead of reminding him of this fact, she clamped her arms around his neck and bent for a kiss. A much more tender one this time – he did deserve a bit of her pity at this point. Then she slowly trailed her lips across his right cheek, following the furrows and ridges of the scar tissue until she could nibble at his ear. Her body was fully pressed against his now, but he was not reacting to it. The pride it took to attain such a degree of detachment was truly remarkable.

"В чём дело, Алешка? Ревнуешь, что у меня несоизмеримо больше власти, чем у тебя?"(V chom delo, Alyeshka? Revnuyesh', chto u menya nesoizmerimo bol'she vlasti, chem u tebya?, _What's the matter little Alec?_ _Jealous that I have immensely more power than you?_), she whispered back.

Finally one of his hands slipped across the small of her back. Yet this was not a signal towards the imminent depletion of his resources. She knew that the second she felt herself being propelled forward; what she had failed to see was his other hand grabbing the door's handle. The downward flick of his wrist combined to their weights produced the thrust that tore her from him and inside the master suite.

"О, не так сильно, как кое-кто к девушке, история которой похожа на её." (O, ne tak sil'no, kak koye-kto k devushke, istoriya kotoroy pokhozha na yeyo., _Oh, not as much as a certain someone of a girl whose story isn't unlike hers_.)

The line and the sardonic grin he flashed afterwards induced a twitch in her eye;

"Прошу прощения?" (Proshu proshcheniya?, _I beg your pardon?_)

"Ну, вы обе женщины в мужском мире, обе мной были вытащены из грязи... и у обе не было сил спасти тех, кого любили." (Nu, vy obe zhenshchiny v muzhskom mire, obe mnoy byli vytashcheny iz gryazi... i u obe ne bylo sil spasti tekh, kogo lyubili., _Well, both of you are women in a man's world, both of you were plucked out of the dirt by me... and both of you didn't have the strength to save the ones you loved_.)

Oh, so he went for the low blows now? Interesting, but he should have known she was above either replying with petty insults or trying to defend herself – particularly as he did not need to be told that story again. Her parents and brothers had been slain by the грызуны (gryzuny, _Georgian rats_) during the barbaric assault of Khetagurovo, her home village; but it was the ungrateful Russians who grounded her in spite of her repeated pleas, not her who lacked the will to kill the rodents with her own hands. Not to mention that being attacked on that front by someone whose father committed suicide not to live with the dishonour of his Nazi-collaborating clan frankly was the pot calling the kettle black.

There were two other things the arrogant Cossack seemed oblivious of. A hunting hawk could not be jealous of a mere piece of meat like Morikawa; and no one would spit on the Onatopp family's grave as long as its last member would still be standing.

"Я тебе ничего не должна, сукин ты сын!" (Ya tebe nichego ne dolzhna, sukin ty syn!, _I don't owe you anything, you son of a bitch!_), she roared.

All claws out, with bared teeth and a baying mouth, she swooped in to finish him off. At first she did not have a specific target; of his legs, arms or any part of his body he so valued – the last vestiges of his good side included –, she would not have spared an inch. But this time his focus was oriented towards defence only, leading to a substantial increase of his dodging abilities. As a result, none of her strikes seemed to land.

Her growing irritation pushing her to the peak of her frenzy, she had no more qualms about going for her lover's more sensitive parts. He kept evading her furious kicks, but soon he acknowledged that he could not step back any further. He toppled over backwards, but not without grasping her sleeveless white blouse to take her down with him. A second later the pair of them laid across the flow of beige, jacquard satin covering the bed, both locking each other in a tight bear hug.

Breaking the embrace, she brought herself to straddle his waist and leaned her hands against his chest. A fine mount he was, except in that she had expected more resistance from his part. It seemed very unlikely to her that he did not have his own ideas on the obvious outcome of this romp, and yet he remained absolutely still, gazing into her eyes as if asking if she was sure of what she was doing. Her answer was not long in coming; if he could not fight her, then she had to eat him alive. Translated into action, this resulted in her unfastening the buttons on his shirt without further ado, scratching and biting the uncovered pale skin along the way.

At least this prompted a reaction from him, and once he got to stripping her of her blouse the cathartic struggle she hoped for truly began. Forgotten were the little Kaiko, the latter's brute of a boyfriend, Goldfinger, or even botching the OMEN job. All of these were firelighters at the very most, a creative excuse for Alec and Xenia to wet their lips with this cocktail of sex and violence they were both so fond of. Two grunting, hungry beasts, that was what they were at this stage. Standing articulate to this outburst of carnal desire was just one sporadic muttering in the Ossetian woman's mother tongue;

"Æз амбылдтон." (Az ambyldton., _I won._)

* * *

After an indefinite while of this business, the Cossack's hands jumped to his partner's throat, squeezing it with an almost unprecedented fierceness. Evidently he had saved his strength for this one moment, so much that a hint of genuine concern started to creep inside Xenia's mind. What made it worse was her current sensations; her vision narrowing around a central tunnel, her energy and consciousness fading. In the cockpit of her MiG-29, these were nothing but biological gauges of the incredible accelerations she used to flirt with. On solid ground she did enjoy a fair dose of erotic asphyxiation, but this was something different. Right now her signals felt like distress ones.

The blackout was brief. It lasted no more than a few seconds, just enough time for him to steal her victory, her climax, once and for all. When she came to herself she had been flicked onto her back, with him moving to follow suit at her side. Snapping out of her transient disorientation, she grabbed his arm before he could lie down and dragged him back, forcing him on top of her. There her deadly legs slid again around him, ready to give him a taste of his own medicine. She was mentally summoning as many demons from hell as her curses could, which involved many variations of the English_ 'bastard__'_ – such as _'паскуда'_ (_paskuda_) and _'козёл'_ (_kozyol_) for the mildest ones –, but she was careful not to voice these out loud. She would have hated them to drown out the dull crack of his ribs.

"What did you expect, that I let you win when you have no valid excuse to give?", he asked, sweating with pain but still keeping his smug composure.

"А какое у тебя?" (A kakoye u tebya?, _What's yours?_), she retorted.

"Good, finally you acknowledge it. See, it was not that hard, was it?"

She cast him a throwaway look and tightened the clutch of her thighs at his sides. Sure, he might be right, but that would not deter her from getting her revenge over his latest affront.

"Anyway, good job with learning your Sun Tzu. _'If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him'_, I must admit you almost tricked me with that one." He was clearly suffocating, but his sarcasms kept going; "Too bad you forgot about the second part of the quote though;_ 'pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant'_."

Suddenly the scissors opened, and one of her feet pushed him aside. After all, she had the whole night to make him eat her dust. She might as well take a break and get back to it when hitting the right mood again, otherwise where was the point?

"Пошёл ты." (Poshol ty., _Screw you_.), she simply said as she got up.

Her destination was the en-suite bathroom, a brown marble room with its own Jacuzzi among other state-of-the-art commodities. She however much preferred going for the shower any day. She did not have the patience of indulging in a bath alone, it always felt like a waste of her time. Not too long later she was already done, and with her olive face freed from its elaborate layer of makeup she slipped inside one of Alec's dressing gowns. A dark blue one, _of course_. She did not get back to bed at once though, first she needed to fetch her cigarette case and lighter.

"Ну вот опять, прикуриваешь всю комнату." (Nu vot opyat', prikurivayesh' vsyu komnatu., _There you go, smoking this room up again._)

After what he had just done, she could not care less about any of his comments.

"Твоя проблема." (Tvoya problema., _Your problem._), she flatly said with a disobeying blow of nicotine.

"Хотя бы открой окно." (Khotya by otkroy okno., _At least open the window._)

"Будь паинькой и сам это сделай." (Bud' pain'koy i sam eto sdelay., _Be a good boy and do it yourself._)

Up to there he had been resting with his hands behind his head, but all of sudden his naked, world-class lazybones swung into action. Not to comply with her wishes though, but to drag her from the edge of the bed to the aforementioned window. At least from this point of view she could devour him with her eyes as he went and came getting an ashtray. That did deserve that she took the little effort necessary to crack the heavy glass pane open.

As she kept having her smoke her gaze turned to outside. The sun was still gleaming in its earlier eerie way, the relative absence of cars in the street below them being the only hint at the current hour of the night. She let the northern breeze gently dry her hair, in one of those rare moments of peace when her passions were all satiated. Meanwhile he had got back to rest, half-wrapped in a linen sheet. Her best guess was that he disliked the view of the bad scar on his inner thigh, the skin of which had been used for the graft on his burnt cheek.

"Почему ты присвоил её себе, я думала делишься всем?" (Pochemu ty prisvoil yeyo sebe, ya dumala delish'sya vsem?, _Why did you keep her for yourself, I thought you shared everything?_), she eventually asked.

The question had been on her lips for quite some time, but trying to get an honest answer required a proper opportunity such as right then. He slowly shifted his sleepy look towards her, then with a quiet scoff he replied;

"Я похож на совдеповца, или тебе не знакомо понятие защита активов?" (Ya pokhozh na sovdepovtsa, ili tebe ne znakomo ponyatiye zashchita aktivov?, _Do I look like a Soviet zealot, or is the notion of asset protection obscure to you?_)

She had a contemptuous snicker as she put out the cigarette stub. So that was what this was all about, defending his not so prodigal daughter from her ministrations. As if he could not be charged with the very same misdeed himself.

"Ха, что за шутка. Видишь, чем она тебе отплатила за так называемую защиту?" (Kha, chto za shutka. Vidish', chem ona tebe otplatila za tak nazyvayemuyu zashchitu?, _Hah__, __what_ _a_ _joke__. __See how she repaid your so-called protection?_)

The last word with a near-perfect impression of Alyeshka's accent, but the concerned party did not take offence.

"You know, I've been thinking.", he stated.

"And?"

Cued by the slight back-tilt of his head, she came crawling onto the bed like a cat stalking its prey. Seeing his conniving smirk as she did, she started to get the feeling that she was about to be served her dessert. A bittersweet one it might be, but she did not mind anymore at this point. When she decided to slither along his body, she was pleasantly welcomed by dexterous fingers following the arch of her back through the blue cotton. Then a whisper reached her ear, brought to absolute perfection by a kiss on her temple;

"Give me some time to find her, and she shall be yours."

"Oh_ darling_…" In her newfound delight she moved to rest her head across his chest, so that she could be rocked by his breath. His hand came to loosen the robe's collar, then to grab and playfully cup one of her breasts. "Ты сладкоречивый дьявол." (Ty sladkorechivyy d'yavol., _You silver-tongued devil._)

* * *

_"As you look around… this room… tonight…  
Settle… in your seat… and dim the lights…  
Do you want my blood…? Do you want my tears…?  
What do you want? (What do you want… from me?)_

_Do you think I know something… you don't know…? (What do you want from me?)  
If I don't promise you the answers… would you go? (What do you want from me?)_

_You can own everything… you see…  
Sell your soul… for complete control…  
Is that really what you need?_

_You can lose yourself… this night…  
See inside… there is nothing to hide…  
Turn and face the light…_

_What do you want from me?"_

(Pink Floyd, "What Do You Want From Me")


End file.
